‘Ensemble nous défendons notre terre-mère’, ‘Mi Lak Tyeñ Kotyañ Lak Ña’Lum’: Documentaire sur l’inséparabilité de la terre, de la culture, de la gouvernance et de la sociabilité.

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De nombreuses populations autochtones de l’état du Chiapas, dans le sud-est du Mexique, ont été à l’avant-garde de la lutte pour la terre et la culture, conçues par elles comme inséparables. Durant des siècles elles ont souffert la dépossession culturelle et territoriale – quand la spoliation territoriale implique presque toujours la spoliation culturelle. Les gouvernements local, fédéral et internationaux, ainsi que les grandes entreprises et le monde des affaires ont l’habitude de travestir cette dépossession sous un discours de “développement” et de “progrès”. A l’inverse, les organisations de défense des droits humains et les populations concernées expliquent que la dépossession doit être comprise dans son contexte et comme faisant partie d’une guerre de basse intensité et de contre-insurrection, qui s’est intensifiée en réponse au soulèvement zapatiste de 1994 et à la mise en place des Conseils zapatistes de Bon Gouvernement en 2003. L’un des éléments en dispute dans ces luttes contre la dépossession c’est la figure légale de l’ejido. Les ejidos sont la propriété sociale des membres de l’ejido, et tous les éléments relatifs à lui sont abordés en assemblée et par les représentants élus par elle. La figure de l’ejido a été établie dans la Constitution nationale après la Révolution mexicaine de 1910. Les Traités de Libre Échange et les politiques dérivées de ces traités ont tenté d’abolir ou d’affaiblir cette importante figure légale.

La commune autochtone ch’ol de Tila a lutté durant plusieurs décennies pour défendre 130 hectares de son ejido. Ce terrain se trouve dans le petit village de Tila et ses alentours, et comprend des terres agricoles et urbaines. Dans la commune de Tila, vivent des membres de l’ejido (indigènes ch’ol) et des habitants urbains (métis). Les premiers se gouvernent par assemblée; jusqu’en décembre 2015, le gouvernement municipal gouvernait les seconds. La figure légale de l’ejido protège l’esprit de la vie en commun et la propriété collective de la terre; le centre de peuplement urbain étant lui, au contraire, soumis aux lois de la propriété privée.

Les 130 hectares en litige furent occupées illégalement durant la décennie des années 60 par le gouvernement municipal métis. Des années plus tard, les membres de l’ejido gagnèrent un jugement censé leur donner une protection juridique contre la spoliation de leurs terres; cependant, ce que les autorités municipales et l’état du Chiapas offrent à l’ejido est une indemnisation en échange de leurs terres, alors que les membres de l’ejido exigent la restitution de la terre car ils estiment qu’elle est cruciale pour leur vie sociale et culturelle. Les membres de l’ ejido ont été jusqu’à présenter leur cas à la Cour Suprême de Justice. Alors que la décision de la Cour tardait, les autorités municipales ont tenté de détruire la cohésion des membres de l’ejido et de les convaincre à l’usure d’accepter une indemnité de compensation pour leurs terres, par le biais d’une campagne de harcèlement constant ou encore par l’introduction de compteurs d’eau courante impliquant de transformer cette ressource en un service payant, alors que les sources d’eau se trouvent sur les terres de l’ejido.

‘Ensemble nous défendons notre terre-mère’, réalisé et produit en collectif par la communauté ch’ol de Tila et la maison de production indépendante Terra Nostra Films, utilise le genre documentaire à la manière d’une lettre publique: le film était initialement destiné aux juges de la Cour Suprême. Dans le documentaire, les membres de l’ejido expliquent en paroles et en images pourquoi cette terre a une valeur inhérente et inestimable, et pourquoi la figure légale de l’ejido ne se réfère pas seulement à la terre communale, mais aussi à la vie sociale et culturelle et à la possibilité de s’auto-gouverner. Le documentaire a été réalisé juste avant que l’ejido, qui est adhérent à la Sixième Déclaration de la Forêt Lacandone de l’EZLN, ne déclare son autonomie le 16 décembre 2015, en réponse à des décennies de spoliation et en résistance à une vague de violence et de répression.

La caméra nous invite à regarder la terre, les paysages, les personnes, les espaces et les pratiques communales d’une façon telle qu’elle ne les enferme pas et que le regard n’en prenne pas possession. Comme dans d’autres productions de Terra Nostra, il n’y a pas la voix d’un narrateur extérieur: ce sont les membres de la communauté eux-mêmes qui parlent, et le spectateur/auditeur est mis au défi d’apprendre à écouter les inflexions et les façons de parler des personnes impliquées dans la lutte pour leur terre. C’est ainsi qu’une poétique visuelle et verbale de la résistance émerge comme faisant partie d’une approche éthique, politique, philosophique et pratique de vivre et de s’engager les uns avec les autres, avec l’environnement social, l’environnement construit et l’environnement naturel… non pas comme une façon de “nous approprier” ou “d’accéder”, mais comme un engagement à la recherche d’une plénitude essentiellement inestimable.

Plus d’informations sur les sites gérés par l’ejido Tila:
http://laotraejidotila.blogspot.mx/
https://www.facebook.com/ejidotila.sexta

Le documentaire est disponible ici en version originale sous-titrée français:

Lien vimeo:

Lien youtube:

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Call for Participation (edited volume) Poetic Words in the 21 st Century Neoliberal City

Which alternatives to the capitalist and neoliberal status quo is the poetic word involved in constructing, by participating in expression, response, spatial occupation or collective organisation? Conversely, in what ways has poetry in public spaces become a tool for readying urban spaces for gentrification? Which strategies do poets and cultural organizers employ to resist such a re-signification of poetry by those in power, and to defend and recuperate poetic words as processes that practice radical democracy and are committed to social, political and spatial justice?

We invite essay proposals that explore the ways in which poetic words engage with the material and the immaterial in the contemporary urban world, marked by spatial injustice (in lines with Edward Soja’s “thirdspace”), racism, sexism and the related phenomena of segregation, marginalization, gentrification, or deliberate decay. This specifically includes essays that pick apart neoliberal and authoritarian mystifications and instrumentalizations of ‘Poetry’ in the contemporary urban context. We welcome investigations of the relationship between poetry and the city’s role in producing categories, such as “illegal” immigrant, that criminalize and exclude, as well as considerations of poetry generated in response to the production and policing of “internal borders” within the cityscape. We are looking for research on poetry and the city’s complicity in neoliberal legal, carceral and penal systems that have targeted migrants, the poor, and racialized populations. How has poetry participated in discourses, or been instrumentalized by forces, that have remade the city as a zone of privilege, homogeneity, and wealth?

Our planned edited volume seeks essays that explore the role of the poetic word as a critical response to, as an engaged critique of and intervention into, the social, affective and political realities of today’s cities that are marked by post-industrial, neo-colonial and neoliberal structures. We are looking for analyses and experiential engagements of a variety of poetic expressions from diverse urban zones, and particularly invite research on cities and towns that are not capitals, a relatively less studied topic in the broader area of investigation.

Many examples of contemporary urban poetry speak about, and from within, spaces marked by the watershed of neoliberal policies and beliefs, and the financial crises of the beginning of our century. The short form, read, performed, exchanged, written on the urban surface, or hidden within the palimpsestic layers of the city, can challenge notions of possession or productivity. This world-making poetic expression, which is sometimes the fruit of cooperative or communal endeavors, and sometimes the cherished hidden gem in a hostile environment, furthermore problematizes traditional ideas of the public and the private and reexamines conventional notions of enunciation and authorship. In the best of cases, it is an exercise in democratic, urban imagination that allows for an active, sense-imparting relationship with the environment.

Studies may include, but are not limited to, strategies of writing against monumentalization, poetry in relation to the city as tourist attraction and object of consumption, street art’s sensory responses to urban rhythms (in line with and beyond the historical vanguards), poetry and touch in an urban context, poetry of resistance to the language of advertisement, art in relation to an economy of sharing, and lyrics of dispossession and discarded objects. Other possible topics include: poetic resistance to, and defense against, neoliberal violence, and poetries of occupation and solidarity, what Kristin Ross (along with the Communards) calls “communal luxury.”

Please send your 3-4 page proposal (max. 1100 words, MLA style) to ashea@cca.edu, ikressner@albany.edu, c.grabner@lancaster.ac.uk by October 31, 2016. The deadline for submission of complete essays (max. 8,000 words) is Jan 31, 2017.

Live Poetry and the Seizure of Literature in São Paulo, Brazil

Carlos Cortez Minchillo, Dartmouth College

In Brazil, Neoliberalism, and even before it, elitist state-led policies of industrialization since the 1950s have generated abnormal levels of wealth concentration, migrant flows to urban areas, and quasi-legal social segregation. In poor, underserved areas of Brazilian big cities, dwellers have been abandoned to their own devices, living for decades now in the crossfire between a frequently abusive, corrupt police and murderous criminal gangs. Under such circumstances, citizenship must not be taken for granted: it is never an undisputable right, but rather something to fight for, against hegemonic sectors of society. Just to give a more precise idea of how resilient these social actors are, as I write this post conservative politicians representing the traditional elites in Brazil have overthrown a democratically elected president and retaken the power. Emblematically, one of the first decisions of the new government was to abolish the Ministry of Women, Racial Equality, and Human Rights. Also, all members of the new cabinet appointed by the acting president are white men.

This political setback runs counter a long and steady struggle of marginalized people in Brazil for social visibility and political voice. Literary venues that have mushroomed in poor areas of Brazilian metropolises in the past fifteen years have a lot to do with that. When I first started studying this cultural movement in São Paulo, I was particularly interested in checking how the controversially labeled “marginal literature” articulated a political and aesthetical counter-discourse. By attending poetry slam events, and through textual analysis and interviews, I wanted to examine the social dynamics and political impact produced by slam poetry, as well as the ways it potentially challenges aesthetical assumptions and well-established literary appraisal criteria.

As Brazilian geographer Milton Santos explains, in Brazil, the possibility of being a citizen depends, to a large extent, on where he or she lives. This perverse cartography of citizenship and the corresponding spatial segregation perpetuates educational, occupational and economic disparities and produces phobic symbolic representations. Very little room is left for positive roles and expectations. The underprivileged is depicted (or sometimes self-depicts) as illiterate, ignorant, idle, socially unadapted, threatening, violent. Often, they are seen as lazy “welfare scroungers” by those who oppose governmental social programs that in recent years were responsible for lifting about 40 million Brazilians from the poverty level.

The media and the arts contribute to consolidating many of these stereotyped identities, even when they expose Brazil’s societal flaws by adopting an empathic attitude toward those oppressed and vulnerable. A recent study by Regina Dalcastagnè shows that in a corpus of 258 Brazilian novels all Black characters are poor, and 58.3% of Black male teenagers are criminals. Thus, in Brazil, literature –or, at least, mainstream literature– does not necessarily reconfigure bigotry, despite potential good intentions underneath the lines of its often brutal realism.

But by using alternative channels, new voices are telling different tales of the city, and they are being heard. Frequently connected to hip-hop culture and social activism, a vibrant literary scene has been gradually expanding in marginal spaces of Brazilian metropolises. In the last years of the 20th century, initiatives like the communal organization of public libraries in poor neighborhoods or the distribution of poems written on recycled cardboards and attached to light poles prepared the ground for major changes. Since 2001 two types of spoken word events emerged in the peripheries of São Paulo: saraus and slam poetry. In common, both saraus and slams first occupied marginal and popular spaces not traditionally associated with literature: cheap neighborhood bars, abandoned squares, and unused areas inside metro stations. Also, they both rely primarily on oral performances, a largely neglected form of literary art. Even when printed, literary texts previously performed in saraus and poetry slams seldom circulate through conventional channels like mainstream publisher houses and bookstores. In other words, to some extent “marginal literature” redefines where and how literature circulates, and who creates, controls and consumes it. That’s what I have been calling the “seizure of the literary” by those who until recently were largely ignored as producers and recipients of literary texts. The casual and inclusive social space of slam poetry and saraus is a key leverage factor in a country where, according to a recent survey, 30% of the population has never bought a book, public libraries are inaccessible or in poor conditions, and schools are uninspiring or even hostile spaces.

Through literature performed in poor neighborhoods, marginalized subjects have been developing a stronger sense of citizenship and political agency. Especially among underprivileged youngsters, a sentiment of entitlement has recently surfaced, giving birth to deviant discourses and self-representations. As “marginal” writer Alessandro Buzo puts it on a poem, for affluent Brazilians a favela dweller carrying a book is a “contraindication”. The association between a favelado and a book represents a symbolic shift whose magnitude can only be assessed if we accept, together with Gramsci, that hegemonic confrontations are not limited to traditional political institutions. They require the deconstruction of common sense and the formation of new subjectivities. Literature, of course, plays a crucial role here. That explains why it is so remarkable that many marginalized Brazilians have elected literary gatherings as the embodiment of a distinct ethos and an alternative strategy for a non-partisan political struggle. Alternative spaces for experiencing literature, non-printed texts, and heterodox ways of circulating and trading printed materials are the foundation of an original literary system, providing room for non-professional authors, new audiences, and unusual poetic discourses. Not only do they stimulate literature as a vehicle for political messages, but equally importantly, they can transform the politics of literature and the aesthetic features of the literary object.

For those who live in the peripheries and favelas of São Paulo, saraus and slams establish a social and emotional network that can partially compensate for the lack of supporting institutions and services. They not only bring the same old literature to new audiences but also, most importantly, stimulate authorship among those who are usually considered uncultured. In saraus and poetry slams, people perform for their fellow neighbors, but as imagined communities, they create, perform and spread new images of themselves. In doing so, they consolidate a collective voice against a society that despises them. One may recriminate them for perpetuating a binary discourse in which the world is simplistically divided in two: on the one hand, “playboys”, “the system”, the rich, police officers and politicians; on the other hand, them, the marginalized. But who is to be blamed for using this binarism as a segregation tool in the first place? Before things can get better, peripheral citizens have to teach in very simple yet poetic terms what is like to be on the other side of society.

 

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Cultural Dispossession by Validation: Poetry, Literary Criticism, and Urban Capitalism in Northern England

By Cornelia Gräbner, Lancaster University

When in our roles as cultural and literary analysts we engage with themes related to oppression, dispossession or resistance, we encounter cultural disdain. This element of symbolic violence is crucial to creating conditions under which populations are exposed to neglect and physical violence, and are rendered vulnerable. In the face of disdain, we often choose for ourselves the role of cultural advocates for an art form or a sector of the population. But what exactly are we doing when we raise the respectability of a population, or the prestige and the market value of an art form? What are the implications of making a population more knowable and less threatening on the terms of hegemonic society? With this post I want to initiate a reflection on, and a problematization of, the dynamics between validation, disdain, and territorial and cultural dispossession. While I will focus on a case study that goes back to the 1960s, this is only the initial research sparked by the contemporary experience of living in North-West England, where urban regeneration has focused on the cultural heritage and the peculiar and particular temporalities of de-industrialized cities like Liverpool, Manchester, and Sheffield.

The ways in which these ‘re-valued’ cultural identities have been made part of capitalist regeneration projects is by residents often experienced as cultural dispossession. Indeed, those who came to populate these urban centres in the 19th and 20th century were marked by previous experiences of dispossession: of the enclosures in England, Wales and Scotland, and of colonial land robbery and cultural genocide at the hands of the British in Ireland and the former colonies in Africa, the Americas, and Asia. These populations did not base their identities or cultures on ownership; instead, they appreciated internalized or skill-based forms of creativity, and (often ephemeral and autonomous) practices of communality and commoning such as carnivalistic partying, shared musical practices, or storytelling. To people with a historical experience of dispossession, all things and practices cultural are precious in ways which are difficult to appreciate by propertied members of society: only what you carry in your mind and in your body cannot be taken from you. When such non-capitalist practices are inserted into commercial exchange, and value is assigned to them on capitalistic terms, a constitutive feature of these cultures is appropriated and compromised.

Cultural Dispossession1 by Validation: The Mersey Poets

Disdain or contempt as a cultural force initiates a dynamic by which the disdained are made vulnerable to direct or indirect violence wielded out by the hegemonic society. Validation is often an attempt to remove people or practices from this vulnerability. But the price is that they are being inserted into the system that disdains them in the first place, and that their autonomous practices as an ‘Other’ are not respected on their own terms. A case in point is that of the so-called Mersey Poets, or Liverpool Poets, who flourished in the 1960s as part of an autonomous cultural scene in Liverpool often labeled the ‘Liverpool scene.’ The Liverpool scene brought together art, poetry and music on equal footing. Coffee houses, bars and clubs provided autonomous and semi-autonomous spaces for regular or one-off poetry performances and readings, the format of many of which was modeled on one-night acts of musicians or the collective performances of bands. Among the core poetry performers and cultural organizers were Adrian Henri, Roger McGough, and Brian Patten. They contributed to the scene in multiple ways, and created multi-faceted, mostly live and ephemeral forms of expression that drew on poetry, performance, music, performance art, painting. Their work expressed an ethos that Richard Craig in New Formations has described as a ‘fellow-feeling between author and other people’ (p. 259), and that Edward Lucie-Smith in The Liverpool Scene called ‘a real sympathy for their environment, but an even greater loyalty’ (p.6). What they were loyal to is the physical, social and cultural context of ‘Liverpool’, understood as a geographical location as well as a social construct and a cultural identity. Because ‘Liverpool’ had been disdained and therefore largely left alone by the establishment, the Liverpool scene could develop its own approach to all matters cultural and artistic. As Adrian Henri described it: ‘Art could go into the streets, be a political act, take away the barrier between fantasy and reality, affect the quality of daily life, seek inspiration from humble and despised objects, create an environment of its own’ (p. 27). Another element of such autonomy was the poets’ irreverence towards authorities put in place by somebody else, expressed by McGough to Lucie-Smith: ‘We’ve got no literary or dramatic heritage. We try out what we’re doing, and we test it on people, and people react, and we sort of go on from there. We haven’t got people to bow down to’ (p. 3).

Many did not take kindly to this attitude, and in one case the Liverpool poets were dismissed precisely on the basis of a metonymy that was established between dispossession and their use of language. The term dispossession was deployed by Jonathan Raban in response to the Liverpool poets in The Society of the Poem (1971). Raban dedicates several pages to poets from Liverpool, Newcastle and San Francisco, describing their style as that of ‘whimsically impoverished speech, an attempt to get a local, private, dispossessed language into verse, to talk straight, bypassing poetic convention, to the audience’ in what is to him ‘a curiously bastardized style’ (p. 116). He contrasts the subjectivities expressed in this ‘whimsically impoverished speech’ with the – for him, acceptable and even admirable – poetic voices that speak ‘as if one of the dispossessed people in the crowd of a nineteenth-century novel, or a twentieth-century newsreel, had been suddenly enfranchised, licensed to speak, not from a dominating, romantic notion of selfhood, but from a humble, unillusioned position in the ruck of a large community’ (p. 125). Raban treats ‘ impoverished’ and ‘dispossessed’ as completed processes without questioning who was dispossessed and impoverished why, when, and by whom; or how (and if) such injustices can be redressed or atoned for in the present. He expresses pity for and even sympathy with the dispossessed, but only when their dispossession results in servile and submissive attitudes that perpetuate the status quo, expressed in them speaking only when enfranchised and licensed to speak by those in power. If they do otherwise, he despises and disdains what characterizes them. His unquestioning acceptance of the patriarchal male lineage turns into judgment when he describes their style as ‘curiously bastardized.’ He either cannot conceive of, or cannot permit, that the Mersey poets’ poetic practice was driven by the desire to create and to share, and devoid of the desire to possess by means of ownership or consumption; and he cannot conceive of a humbleness that is neither servile nor submissive.

Then and now literary critics set themselves the task to counter such disdain. This was often done by validating the poetry on the grounds of its embeddedness in the ‘local culture’, or its popularity (understood as expressed by the market). This approach seemed to be supported by the fact that their anthology The Mersey Sound (1967), part of Penguin’s well-respected Modern Poets Series, became a best-seller. But the poets themselves often felt that validation on such grounds was insensitive, inattentive and denigrating towards the poetic and linguistic elements of their poems. Moreover, on a political level, addressing disdain with a counter-movement distracted theorists and readers from the autonomous alternatives to classism and capitalism that the poetry of the Liverpool poets carried within it, and which the response of theory thus failed to learn from, to grow, and to nurture.

Predatory Assemblages: Regeneration and Cultural Dispossession

In the culture-based, neoliberal ‘regeneration’ of the post-industrial city the validation of disdained cultures or populations on hegemonic terms becomes an element of what Saskia Sassen has called ‘predatory assemblages.’ In her analysis of contemporary expulsions and enclosures, Sassen argues that ‘we are seeing the making not so much of predatory elites but of a predatory “formations”, a mix of elites and systemic capacities …, that push toward acute concentration.’ (14) Those who are benefitting from this process, she argues, ‘could not have achieved such extreme concentration of the world’s wealth. They need what we might think of as systemic help: a complex interaction of these actors with systems regeared towards enabling extreme concentration.’ (13). This includes the help of national governments, with ‘enormous capacities for intermediation that function as a kind of haze, impairing our ability to see what is happening – but unlike a century ago, we would not find cigar-smoking moguls in this haze. Today, the structures through which centralization happens are complex assemblages of multiple elements, …’ (14). To have what one most cherishes become a valued and effective part of what has dispossessed one’s ancestors of their livelihoods and their territory in the past, and what encloses and oppresses oneself or others in the present, and to then be told that one should feel complimented and honoured, is surely one of the most heart-wrenching, most demeaning and undermining experiences that human beings can go through – and this is what I mean by ‘cultural dispossession.’ It is one more prove that capitalism cannot abide what refuses to be in its likeness, even and especially when it is peaceful – so this is what we have to appreciate, love, defend and nurture on its own terms.

Works Cited

Craig, David, The Real Foundations: Literature and Social Change (London: Chatto & Windus, 1973)

Henri, Adrian, Environments and Happenings (London: Thames and Hudson, 1974)

Lucie-Smith, Edward, ed., The Liverpool Scene: Recorded Live along the Mersey Beat (London: Donald Carroll, 1967)

Raban, Jonathan, The Society of the Poem (London: Harrap, 1971)

Sassen, Saskia, Expulsions: Brutality and Complexity in the Global Economy (Cambridge and London: Belknap Press, 2014)

Smith, Stan, ‘ “Every Time a Thing is Possessed, It Vanishes”: The Poetry of Brian Patten’, in Michael Murphy and Deryn Rees-Jones, ed., Writing Liverpool (Liverpool, Liverpool University Press, 2007) pp. 117-137

1 I have first come across this term in Stan Smith’s contribution on the poetry of Brian Batten in Writing Liverpool. Whether ‘cultural dispossession’ is Smith’s term, or whether it is one commonly used, I have not been able to ascertain. It is certainly a term that resonates with realities and experiences, and that I here turn into a concept.

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Invitation and Introduction: The Poetic Word and Urban Resistances to Neoliberalism

Please join a conversation about resistance, dissent and creativity in contemporary neoliberal cities. Anne Shea, Cornelia Gräbner and Ilka Kressner started this conversation in 2014 during a panel organized by Cornelia Gräbner and Constanza Ceresa at the annual meeting of the American Comparative Literature Association (ACLA) in New York, continued it among the three of us over the following two years, and opened it up again to a wider group of people in a second panel at the Annual Meeting of the ACLA at Harvard in March 2016. The initial posts on this theme are written by the participants of this second panel.
Our panel was titled “Creative Alternatives to Neoliberalism: Poetic Word in Urban Spaces.” While we knew that we wanted to invite contributions on the neoliberal city, we weren’t initially sure what type of resistances we wanted to talk about. In the end we agreed on ‘creative’, notwithstanding the role that the creative class has played, or rather has been made to play, in gentrification. Both terms ‘resistance’ and ‘creative’  were up for discussion; we wanted to give ourselves and the panel participants the chance to look at them and explore them from different angles, cautious and aware of their significance in the contexts of gentrification and urban repression.
One point we took from the panel concerns the role of dissent, which is often identified with resistance – an identification that we wish to question. Many of the contributions indicate that a small dose of dissent is great for the neoliberal city and from a capitalist mindset. For the purposes of marketization and urban culture it makes a city all the cooler, especially when it is articulated in culturalized and arty forms and thus manages to bring together the cutting-edge and the aesthetically pleasing, when it is well-spoken, recognizably intelligent, and unthreateningly self-confident (or self-assured?). For neoliberal urban politics, dissent can be employed to manage just the right changes and to navigate all the invisible and intangible structures that hold the status quo in place. It justifies labels like ‘democratic’ and terminology like ‘participatory’ or ‘consultation’ – and those are crucially important to the neoliberal system because the educated middle classes, who are so crucial to neoliberal capitalism, shy away from situations and places where they feel – we emphasize ‘feel’ – disempowered. 
With regards to resistance, many of the presentations indicated that those in power and the privileged in cities welcome a little bit of resistance. After all, resistance brings a lot of energy to the urban mix, and as long as those in power can channel this energy and use it in their favour, it strengthens a city’s edge and attractiveness. This does not de-value the resistances in themselves, on the contrary — but it does make it clear that critique, ethical principles, listening, response, respect for Otherness and difference, and solidary forms of organization are not second-rate to expression.
Several presentations refer to the resistances of those who David Harvey with Fiona Jeffries in Nothing to lose but our Fear (2015) has described as the ‘disaffected’, those who are in a relatively privileged position. Among the topics discussed in this context are shifts of sociopolitical roles of different classes, ways of forming alliances and the question of how to talk over others. 
For those who identify as the urban dispossessed, culture, memory, and art – whatever they create or make with their own hands, their own voices, whatever they share and what binds them together – are most precious. This and their collective and individual subjectivities is what they have salvaged, cradled, nurtured, clung to, hidden, smuggled, defended, re-created and clawed back over long and at times unmeasurable periods of repression and/or attrition. Such co-created, often collective, communal, communized cultures are irreplaceable, and they can only live and thrive when they have breathing space on their own terms. That predatory capitalism wants to steal even them and re-make them in its own image is the ultimate offense; it is a reason to defend then, not to dismiss them or give up on them. But in order to do so, one has to decide on, and commit to, a stance.
Part of feeling ourselves into that stance was defined by our practices of listening and of speaking, of paying attention to the opaque without exposing it to a hostile limelight and doing favours to those who want to know so that they can constrain and repress, of being mindful of the practices, dynamics and structures of authority that we ourselves are part of in sometimes complicated ways and that we sometimes do not know how to not replicate, of not isolating an academic paper from the neoliberal context in which it was researched, written, presented and listened to; of being clear and committed without being judgmental. This need of continued examination is part of our decision to continue working on this project. We will start this next round of work with the fairly open form of a collaboration with the Poetics of Resistance, which consists of us ‘curating’ the blog Poetics of Resistance for about two months. However, this will not be the only venue for the project, as we agree that this topic needs to also be explored in a more traditionally academic format, such as that of an edited volume.
We welcome contributions, suggestions, and comments, as long as they are not sexist, racist, classist, or discriminate, violate or abuse. Anyone is free to reply to any of the posts; if you would like to contact us then please do through the form of the Poetics of Resistance blog, or find our university email addresses – it’s easy.
Anne Shea, California College of Art
Cornelia Gräbner, Lancaster University
Ilka Kressner, State University of New York
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Re-launching Poetics of Resistance: On Porous and Relational Autonomy

Re-launching Poetics of Resistance: On Porous and Relational Autonomy

Cornelia Gräbner, Lancaster University

The network ‘Poetics of Resistance’ is back. After organizing symposia in 2007 and 2008 in Leeds and Santiago de Compostela, and after two collective publications in 2010 and 2011, we dispersed and found each other in smaller projects on specific elements of the Poetics of Resistance, such as poetry in public spaces and non-lyrical poetry. In spring 2015 we resurfaced at the Annual Conference of the Society for Latin American Studies in Aberdeen with a panel on the Poetics of Resistance and Autonomy, organized by David M.J. Wood and myself. We are now initiating a new phase of regular and sustained activity. As part of my intellectual contribution to this new beginning, I will here suggest a few inroads to a sharpened theoretical engagement with a concept we left undertheorized when we dispersed: ‘autonomy’.

Porous Autonomy

‘Autonomy’ was one of the key themes that ran throughout most articles included in the 2010 special issue ‘Poetics of Resistance’, published by Cosmos and History and edited by David M.J. Wood and myself. In the ‘Introduction’ we coined the term ‘porous autonomy’ because we found that most authors treated contexts such as academia or the art world as part of neoliberal hegemony. Since neoliberalism co-opts almost every resistant articulation, we suggested that ‘spaces of resistance can … be thought of as being lodged within hegemony’, and that ‘the social and political configurations with which artists interact, and the creative process itself, are not necessarily ‘pure’ of the hegemonic ideological structures that they resist, and therefore ‘outside ideology.’

The networks’ thinking on the relationship between the work of art and social movements we also conceptualized through this term: ‘porous autonomy is developed through a relationality between the work of art that maintains its autonomy, and the social movements or political groups that articulate similar demands on a political level. The issue here is … to what extent a committed work of art or aesthetic practice maintains its critical distance from the social movements with which it sympathizes while at the same time productively interacting with them from a critical perspective.’ After years of working on committed writing and on tact and the haptic, of learning from non-academic epistemologies, of life experience, I’m now struck firstly by our omission of critique, and secondly by the association of the ‘critical’ with ‘distance’. Sure, critique needs space – but I would now think of ‘space’ as a shared space in which different agents interact through critique, and where critique is one of the ways in which these agents work with closeness, encounter, touch, and breathing space.

Finally, we suggested that ‘porous autonomy … becomes a very useful position of resistance in situations in which aesthetics and aesthetic communities become the carriers of political demands in the absence of carriers of real political power.’ We were referring to situations where the State had proved ineffective, or where political parties no longer functioned as carriers of oppositional and contestatory power. We did not make explicit what we knew: that there were carriers of real political power such as neoliberalizing States, corporations and the global apparatus that supports them. While they ravage spaces and people inside and outside the academy, they were – and still are – making the most of our openness, conceptualized as porosity.

Porosity, Relationality, Autonomy

And now, six years later? The openness we had envisaged for critique has been appropriated into the neoliberal porosity of academia, which resembles the porosity of borders between neoliberal nation States: whatever creates value (money, prestige, fame, an appearance of morality,…) may travel; everything and everybody else is turned away, ignored, interned, expulsed, or left to drown. Life within the reduced and constrained area enclosed by the border has become a negotiation of regularly and (seemingly) arbitrarily tightening and loosening rules, expectations and frameworks. Sure, there are temporary autonomous zones within academe. Sure, if we don’t lose focus in spite of the marking, the meetings, the grant applications, emotional exhaustion and intellectual attrition, we can make the most of them before they are co-opted or absorbed quickly or gradually, at a pace and in ways not always obvious, or easy to track. Whether it is desirable or coherent for us to continuously move the poetics of resistance from one such cycle into the next, is an ethical and a strategic question. Until we answer it, I’m limited to tactical considerations on how we can maintain the possibilities of resistant encounters without entrenching ourselves, walling ourselves in, or shutting down.

The concept of relational autonomy – as distinct to porous autonomy – has been helpful in thinking through these challenges, and I will share some thoughts with reference to some of the points made by Andrea C. Westlund in her article ‘Rethinking Relational Autonomy’(2009).1 Relational autonomy is rooted in feminist thought, and it provides an alternative to traditional notions of autonomy – tied in with sovereignty – by conceptualizing relationality as constitutive of autonomy.2 For Westlund, relationality is constituted by several elements: ‘Autonomy in choice and action – and hence, derivatively, in its other senses – relies (at least in part) on the disposition to hold oneself answerable to external critical perspectives on one’s action-guiding commitments. … Autonomy, on this view, requires an irreducibly dialogical form of reflectiveness and responsiveness to others.’ (28) When the agent’s reflective capacities are constrained, her commitments and actions act out ‘essentially monological functions such as endorsing or rejecting lower-order attitudes from elsewhere within her own hierarchy of attitudes, … .’ (33)

A challenge to the commitments or actions of an autonomous agent – and I understand ‘critique’ as a non-aggressive challenge – must meet two conditions in order to be legitimate: it must be ‘relationally situated’ (ie.embedded within what Westlund describes as a sense-imparting relationship), and it must be context-sensitive (ie. open to a range of responses): ‘Autonomous agents will, in one way or another, manifest responsiveness to justificatory challenges, and their disposition to do so is partly constitutive of their status as self-governing. But they can manifest such responsiveness even while disvaluing and refusing to engage in certain practices, including practices in which they are pressed to cite their reasons in the face of direct questioning.’ (40)

I want to take elements of Westlund’s argument as springboards to think about the first two aspects of autonomy that Dave and I had identified in our 2010 Introduction: the relationship between critique and the academy, and – slightly shifting our focus – the relationship between the institutionalized thinker and her interlocutors outside the academy. My reflections refer to the conditions for critique, rather than the finished art work or work of critique. This is because if, as we put it in the ‘About Us’ of the network, critique nurtures resistances of others and increases literacies of resistance, then I cannot sequentially place the terms of my critique before building a relationship with my interlocutors.3

Through the Poetics of Resistance I can build sense-imparting relationships with roughly three groupings of people by way of responding to their work or by using academia to create shared spaces: with artists, community groups and social movements who appeal to public awareness and visibility; with groupings who form part of autonomous publics; and with groupings who share with those who practice the Poetics of Resistance a critical relationship to the normative public.

In the first case, a sense-imparting relationship exists when academics serve, or interact with, the public interest. Collaborations activate these relationships, and ethics regulations, Social Impact and Knowledge Exchange validate and regulate them within the frameworks provided by the institutions involved. Challenges and responses to them will be expressed in a way that is acceptable to normative public discourse and will probably be mindful of its hierarchical structures.

In the second case a sense-imparting relationship on the terrain or on the terms of academia is not usually possible because these groupings consider academia as linked to conservative elitism, a hostile normative public, neoliberal capitalism and/or authoritarian State power. Recognition or acceptance by the normative public is of no or little interest to them. A tenuous sense-imparting relationship may be possible if I personally am at all times critically self-aware about the implications of my role as an academic and respect their autonomy by responding to (not evaluate, assess or judge) material that they themselves have released into the public domain. They will respond on their own terms and when and if they consider it appropriate, often indirectly, in forms as varied as critical engagement, irony, or strategic mockery or offense.

For the third grouping – for example, journalists, some media activists, committed writers or artists – the type of critical analysis carried out within the academy can be useful and important. A range of sense-imparting relationships are possible if all parties involved are critically self-aware at all times, if the relationship is on equal terms and based on trust, and if each of the partners can let go of it for good reasons. The wide range of possible responses often include or imply a shared critique of normative discourses, and the construction of alternative ones. The Poetics of Resistance can become one of the building blocks of all sorts of relationships, including alliances, and of shared processes and projects.

The crux of the matter lies in my insistence on the ‘self-aware’ and the ‘self-reflective’ which refer, of course, to the role of the academic. Our notion of porosity was meant to refer to conditions under which someone with a dialogical disposition has the space to act on it. Many of us are now in a situation where the academic is turning into a functionary in the service of the neoliberal forces that have channelled themselves into the institutions. Those of us with an open disposition are useful in that we may be able to mine areas of potential profit which are foreclosed to those without that disposition; but this means that our disposition has been converted into a function. This has been done through the combination of over-regulation and arbitrariness in the Research Excellence Framework, which defines what type of outputs are acceptable and which creates a fixation not only on producing ‘outcomes’ and ‘outputs’, but on turning everything into an ‘outcome’ or an ‘output.’ Policies on Social Impact and Knowledge Exchange force relationships and interactions into compliance with assessment frameworks which are in turn linked to authoritarian power structures and capitalist ideology. So-called ethics regulations impose the terms of the institution on the ways in which I speak with others and create something shared with them, no matter whether these terms are appropriate to the context. The endorsement of open access to intellectual property circumvents the debate over whether the intellectual is a commons, or property. Thus, ideology and policies within academia co-opt and instrumentalize my relational disposition towards others, while they constrain the relationality I can exercise within academia by normativizing and hierarchizing formerly sense-imparting relationships and by turning my relational disposition into the function of producing ‘academic currency’.

If I conceptualized my autonomy in traditional masculinist notions tied to sovereignty, I could now claim my ‘quiet corner’ and ‘save myself’ (to paraphrase Mario Benedetti) by handing over my Self. Relationality then turns into an optional add-on to expertism; moreover, the type of relationality is up to the sovereign. Many colleagues choose this option, and many non-academics appreciate the combination of prestigious credibility, personal glamour and gestures of rebelliousness that come with it. But this is not an option if the Poetics of Resistance entail a commitment to the anti-patriarchal. Moreover, if the Poetics of Resistance have anything to do with resisting – as distinct to writing about other people’s resistances – then resigning the relationality of my autonomy constitutes, on the political level, a deference to all the equivalents of Margaret Thatcher’s ‘There is no alternative’, and my resignation turns me into a deferential agent (Westlund): ‘By “deeply deferential agents” I mean those who endorse their deference but have no basis for doing so that is not itself deferential. Pressed to explain why they always defer, such agents simply persist in referring their interlocutors to the perspectives of those to whom they defer.’ (Westlund 2009: 32) If I chose this option I would turn the Poetics of Resistance into a pseudo-critique that paints the status quo a pseudo-democratic colour and endorses negativity as gesture – to establish a connection back to Adorno, whom we once moved away from.

A Compromised Position

We are re-launching the network Poetics of Resistance from a compromised position. From my part I’d suggest that there are three challenges for us to meet immediately: Firstly, our critique has to be be more committed and more incisive; secondly, we have to be critically self-aware about which types of relationships we maintain with whom, and for which reasons, and our relationships can be dialogical but must never, ever, be porous; thirdly, in our historical moment the integrity of our critique is tied in with our commitment to principles and relationships on equal footing. To do this, I suggest that we move from porous autonomy to relational autonomy. Right now, the attempt to mobilize institutional porosity locks us into what I once called the SafeSpace. Relational autonomy maintains a bit of breathing space and opens up a tiny chance to help build that durable encounter that someone once located ‘beyond resistance.’

1Andrea C. Westlund, ‘Rethinking Relational Autonomy.’Hypatia 24:4, Fall 2009, pp. 26-49.

2On the level of governmental autonomy, Mara Kaufmann and Alvaro Reyes have made a similar argument on the Autonomous Zapatista communities. Alvaro Reyes and Mara Kaufman, ‘Sovereignty, Indigeneity, Territory: Zapatista Autonomy and the New Practices of Decolonization.’ The South Atlantic Quarterly 110:2, Spring 2011, pp.505-525.

3This does not apply to my commitments, which may be the reason to strike up such relationships.

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